


Sunday mornings

by sienna



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:01:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sienna/pseuds/sienna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing more relaxing than a Sunday morning. As Arthur soon finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone for the comments for the last fic. Especially the critiques. It really helped. :) If there's any potential betas please let me know.
> 
> Hetalia doesn't belong to me. This is strictly non profit.

It is early morning, when he wakes up to find himself alone in the bed. The window is opened and the curtains are parted to allow the sunlight in casting golden shadows on the floorboards.

'Stupid frog,' He mutters as he opens a bleary eye and squints at the open curtains, wincing at the bright sunlight. He yawns and sits up with some reluctance. He yawns again and shivers at the morning air before reaching over the side of the bed for his discarded t-shirt.

He could hear the fairies chattering around him and he nods, not really listening as he stretches. Yawns. Something about clothes and sleeping. He aches all over.

What if he caught a cold? They scolded.

He slips on the t-shirt and at the urging of the fairies, he reaches for the matching pants. Arthur slips them on, buttoning them before he treks to the kitchen where he's certain where the other male is.

Francis is standing at the stove, his back to him when he enters the kitchen. He's wearing one of Arthur's blue faded aprons, the one with bunnies , that Arthur is certain he never owned but somehow he did. Arthur isn't sure wherever to feel horrified or embarrassed that Francis knows where he keeps his pots and pans.

Francis is whistling a nameless song as he cooks a crepe, pouring fresh batter into the frypan, tilts the pan and watches it cook. Next to him sits a pot of milk, simmering away.

"Ahh, Arthur?" He turns, frying pan in hand. "Finally awake?" He leers.

Arthur flushes, embarrassed to be caught staring and he crosses his arms with a scowl. He turns his head to avoid staring at him.

"Who gave you permission to use my stove?" Despite the words, Arthur eyes the crepes on the table with an appreciative air, where it sat in the center along with pots of jam and the butter dish. He almost smiles when he notices the teapot on the table along with the jug of milk and sugar beside it. He turns back to see Francis staring at him.

"Ah you wound me," Francis puts a hand on his chest with a mournful expression. "You weren't saying that last night..." He waggles his eyebrows with a leer.

"S-Shut up," Arthur brushes past him to get to the pantry. "Why did you bother making breakfast? I could have made scones."

He doesn't need to turn around to see Francis' disgusted expression. Sure, his scones may be black and wafting black smoke, but it didn't mean they were awful. They were still edible, after all he had raised Alfred and Matthew on them. They turned out fine.

"No, you can sit down Arthur," Francis pushes him towards the chair with the plate. "Breakfast is nearly done."

Arthur stares at his plate of crepes.

"I want toast." He knows without looking up that Francis is rolling his eyes at his childish behaviour. Of course, he would deny it if Arthur mentioned it.

Francis lets out a long suffering sigh, that Arthur is certain that is a hundred percent fake and walks back to the stove to cook another two crepes and to pop some bread in the toaster.

Arthur watches him move about in the kitchen, watches him turn off the stove, then open the bottom cupboard to take out two plates where he places the toast on one plate and the crepes on the other. Arthur frowns when he notices the Moka pot on the stove. He is certain that isn't his.

"You should get a coffee machine." Francis sniffs as he picks up the Moka pot to pour into a bowl before reaching for the pot of milk.

"Why? Tea is obviously better." Arthur remarks as he pours himself a cup and reaches for the milk and sugar.

"All the more reason why English food is bland." Francis retorts as he walks to the table.

He passes Arthur the plate of toast before he walks back to grab his coffee.

Arthur watches Francis take a sip, hears the soft intake of breath and sees the satisfied smile. The last time he saw a nation having that blissful face when drinking coffee was Feliciano.

'He and Francis are clearly related.' Arthur thinks embarrassed. 'No one else would drink coffee with such an indecent expression on their faces.'

Francis must have noticed him watching, because he looks up with a questioning look. There's some milk froth on his upper lip and Arthur flushes and looks down quickly, picking up his knife and fork. He hears Francis pull out his chair.

'The crepes are good.' He has to admit with some reluctance, as he chews and swallows. Which he wasn't going to admit to the frog. Not at all.

Arthur finishes one crepe before he reaches for the toast.

He butters the toast and sneaks a glance at Francis again. He watches Francis eat for a few minutes. Watches the way his fingers grasp the knife and fork, the way a stray strand falls into his eyes and how he brushes it away, eyes closed for a brief moment. Watches the way, his fingers curl around the bowl of coffee and the satisfied smile as he sips. Watches as a pink tongue comes out to lick at the froth at the corner of his mouth.

"Arthur?" Francis notices him.

Arthur looks down, embarrassed to be caught again. He's thankful that he bit into the toast to avoid answering. He doesn't notice Francis' smirk.

He feels a hand reach over and clasp his. Arthur swallows quickly to avoid choking and from spluttering it all over Francis, although he wished he did.

"W-What are you doing you pervert?" He tries to snatch his hand away. "Can't you eat a meal in peace without molesting anyone?"

Francis merely smiles in reply and he doesn't let go of his hand.

Arthur is sure his face is bright red by now and he wants to curse and throw things at that perverted idiot. But then he would be later regretting at all his broken china, it would have helped if they were at Francis' house instead. Watching that frog lament over broken items never cease to be amusing.

Somehow Francis doesn't let out of his hand throughout the whole time as they ate. And Arthur feels the warmth of his hand and the slow smile he gets in return when he looks up. He had to admit, that it was nice.

That sometimes it was nice to have breakfast with someone who cared.

Even if said someone was a pervert who was-

"F-Francis? What is your foot doing?"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms welcomed. :)


End file.
